


Not As Sweet As You

by Heyerette



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Prompt Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyerette/pseuds/Heyerette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hobbits like to bake.</p>
<p>Dwarf kings like to eat.</p>
<p>Hobbit consorts and their dwarf king husbands like to ...</p>
<p>Play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not As Sweet As You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinysparks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinysparks/gifts).



> I know.
> 
> Another one.
> 
> Once again, I refer you to shinysparks.
> 
> But I promise you this shall be the last for now - no matter how mean and evil the prompting - and that the next thingy you see posted from me will be the next part of the Being Whole series. Which is already in the works. 
> 
> This short drabble of a fluffy one shot is the result of a "Bilbo is baking and Thorin is covered in flour" prompt. Fine. My hips are just very glad that all this baking and prospective eating is only happening on paper. Keyboard. Internet. Ireallywantacheesecakenow. 
> 
> If you´ve come here from TPOTP or OTP - thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks! I really appreciate them. :)

Thorin closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping a little as he leaned back against the heavy door. Something that sounded suspiciously like a relieved sigh could be caught in the otherwise silent surroundings.

A moment later, he abruptly detached himself and stalked further into the chamber, vehemently freeing his person of his ceremonial garb; various layers of fabric falling to wherever the king chose to lose them; weapons and chains and crown making clanking noises as they were dropped onto both floor and chairs alike. 

He needed - 

His husband would throw a fit, of course.

His husband would flit across the room the moment his gaze should fall upon _The mess, Thorin! Honestly!_ , scolding and muttering and grumbling while picking up the various pieces and trinkets and folding them neatly and putting them into their respective boxes and drawers and quite possibly do that unfairly adorable thing with his little index finger that always made Thorin want to take it between his teeth and - 

His _husband._

The husband he had been married to a scarce few months; the husband that had come on a quest to steal from a dragon and had ended up stealing a king´s heart.

The husband that the king very much wished to run his gentle fingers through his hair while accepting his head in his lap and hum soothingly and thus make that annoying hammering in his head, which was the result of prolonged exposure to the inane effusions of his council and an ever growing number of petitioners, subside. 

He wanted his husband to do away with the recollection of being forced to listen to mining disputes and guild favouritisms and market stall positions and suggestions of marriageable nieces and daughters and sisters and - 

The widow had been the last straw. 

Fili´s near whimper at his side seemed to have agreed. 

He wanted his _husband_. 

His _Bilbo_. 

Now. 

Preferably. 

His Bilbo, his husband, his hobbit, his love. 

His _heart._

Who would coax him out of his mood (Thorin would naturally attempt to hold on to the same as long as possible. He had his pride to consider, after all. And the hobbit was just too irresistible when getting all flustered and exasperated over the king´s persistent frowns and creases and that thing he referred to as whining which was _not_ whining and Thorin had never taken to whining at any point in his life, no matter what his adorable consort had to share on the matter!) and make him tea (Thorin had become almost used to sipping the insipid brew at certain times of his day. His hobbit enjoyed his tea so Thorin would drink tea with him. As long as it wasn´t camomile. He drew the line at that cat-lap. Firmly. Violently, if he had to.) and – if he should be so fortunate – see to the sore muscles in his neck and … 

_Other Things._

Things of which the dwarf would be highly in favour despite his Mahal-cursed headache and his exhaustion and which he had, if he was honest with himself, been looking forward to ever since he had left the toasty warm, dishevelled, still slumbering hobbit in their bed that very morning. 

But he needed said _hobbit_ for those things. 

And said _hobbit_ was, apparently, nowhere to be found. 

Or at least not within the not so confined confines of the royal apartments. 

Where he should have been. 

_Waiting_ for the king. 

His husband.

Wearing nothing but that old, patched robe of his and - 

The King turned abruptly on his booted feet and stomped out of the door he had only just walked through. 

He had a husband to find. 

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo Baggins; husband to Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, Consort to the King under The Mountain, hobbit of the Shire, barrel rider, riddle-solver, spider-slayer, defeater of dragons and burglar extraordinaire was …

Baking.

Had, in fact, been baking a good many hours of that particular day.

And not in the small, if perfectly lovely private kitchen his insane husband had had installed in their personal chambers because he had reasoned that his hobbit had been used to calling a kitchen his own to rush about in as he pleased and while Erebor boasted a number of kitchens and of sheer intimidating sizes they were in too great a distance from the royal apartments and would require his hobbit to negotiate too many halls and pathways he was as yet unfamiliar with should the urge to go on one of his hobbit-ish cooking rampages come over him and he preferred to not be obliged to worry over the state of his hobbit´s neck while engaged in restraining himself from strangling the members of his council.

His hobbit, naturally, had not been fooled.

Well, yes, his dwarf had quite the vexing tendency to consider the hobbit a creature in dire need of Saving and Protection and Supervision and Coddling and all that and he had put a quick end to _that_ with a rather unhobbit-ish temper flare, thank you.

That was, for the most part. Because during said temper flare he had made a rather horrifying discovery. His beloved, pigheaded dwarf of a husband... 

Was not beneath taking to methods which the hobbit now understood their nephews to have learned from none other than their kingly uncle. Even if _that_ suggestion had met with strong, wounded denial.

He had naturally scolded the dwarf severely for trying Those Eyes on him but - 

_Eru_ , he was going to have to become a very hard-hearted, firmly resolute hobbit if he was to withstand that look of sadness and reproach and _hurt_.

_Kili_ could take lessons with the dwarf!

Horrible sneaky, stubborn, foolish creature that he was.

His husband.

There was still hope for his nephew.

He hoped.

And one of the many idiosyncrasies of his exasperating husband was that - 

He was extremely jealous of the hobbit´s cooking.

And baking.

Cooking and baking.

And took to glaring at whoever so much as briefly let their eyes rest on one of the culinary fruits of his husband´s labour that were closest to his possessive heart.

Which list contained - and in no particular order - blueberry muffins, cherry and almond cupcakes, dark chocolate and red berries mousse, anything that involved the use of sour green apples, lemon tarts and chestnut rolls. And then there was Bilbo´s cheesecake. Which was by then commonly referred to as Thorin´s Cheesecake and woe to the dwarf who as much as stared at it wistfully.

The king would have denied to anyone that he had any weakness that could be even remotely compared to a sweet tooth; it was just that his consort took the trouble of making all those little and not so little delicacies and he would naturally show himself grateful for the effort that had been made! 

The dwarves of the former company, of course, knew better than to risk their king´s ire if they wanted to partake of the aforementioned delicacies – which they most definitely wished to! - and restricted their commenting on any deathly glares and low growls to mere hints of teasing. When they felt particularly brave. Which was usually when their hobbit was around who, bless his little heart, knew how to keep his grumbling husband in check and was also extremely partial to the concept of equality.

Much to the dwarf king´s grumpy displeasure.

But since his hobbit had threatened to not take to any baking for _anyone_ any longer if _Thorin would not behave like a grown-up dwarf, thank you very much!_ the king deemed it wise to refrain from too open an opposition to what he not-so-secretly considered hobbit-ish treachery. 

It helped that his hobbit always sneaked him a little baked surprise but still - 

He was king.

It was his prerogative to declare his what should be his.

Like the hobbit.

His hobbit.

The hobbit that held the king´s heart firmly in his small, soft, strong hobbit hands and for whom he would forgo all sweet temptations if it meant it would please his hobbit.

Except for the cheesecake.

The cheesecake was non-negotiable.

And, according to the dwarf, his hobbit´s own fault.

Bilbo chose to accept that for a fact and merely privately thought that the dwarf was lucky that he had married a _hobbit_ and not a member of his own race, whose idea of marital felicity generally did not include the supervision and care-taking of any tummies involved in the relationship but rather more the cleaning of a spouse´s weapon and the forging of tools. Both very respectable, useful occupations, of course, but the hobbit much preferred a more nurturing approach in his dealings with his erratic spouse. On a physical as well as spiritual level.

And speaking of physical nurturing - 

The tips of the hobbit´s pointed ears went bright red in recollection of his husband´s particular approach to _nurturing_ the night before. 

Thorin was - 

“Why the baking?

\- in the Great Kitchen with him.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Thorin. I´m baking.”

“Hm.”

The nose that had started to nuzzle at his curls and could now be found within the general vicinity of his neck did not appear to have any intention of stopping in its exploration. Nor did the hands that had embraced the squeaking hobbit from behind loosen their grip. And now there were lips involved, too, and really, the hobbit would quite like to be able to concentrate on producing the perfect mixture of flour and sugar and nuts and - 

And that - _that_ \- was really not _fair!_

“No, no, no! Stop it!” Bilbo had wriggled out of his decidedly too attentive spouse´s arms and was confronting the unapologetic dwarf with his wooden spoon raised in a threatening manner. “If you come down here to be a bother – and shouldn´t you still be glaring at your council? - you will at least make yourself _useful_! And no nuzzling! Or – or teasing! Or -” The spoon was now firmly pointing at the king´s chest, providing what the hobbit decided would have to do for a barrier - “Kissing! I am _baking_ and your majesty will _not_ distract me from my cakes. Now wash your hands and then bring me the almonds, they´re on that shelf over there.”

A pair of noble brows went up.

“Almonds.”

The hobbit rolled his eyes at the flat question. It was a good thing that his husband was pretty. And _that_ the dwarf was. Very pretty. Handsome. Beautiful. With his strikingly blue eyes and his -

And there he went with the distraction again! Insufferable dwarf! Really.

“Yes. And you can also get me another bag of walnuts. The crushed ones. I think they will go quite nicely with -” 

“No.”

The king had crossed his arms, that mulishly stubborn expression on his face the hobbit was oh so familiar with and which never failed to rouse his irritation.

Or make him want to kiss the stupid frown away.

Alternatingly.

Depending on the circumstances.

Mood.

Occasion.

Moment.

And right at that moment - 

Bilbo glowered at his husband, clearly not amused.

“Thorin -” 

The king suddenly smirked and quickly leaned in to steal a kiss from the irate hobbit, causing the smaller being to flush wildly and expostulate once he was able to catch his shaky breath again. .

~ ~ ~ ~

The king stared at his husband as if he had never seen him before, hands frozen in their movement.

“Elves.”

He practically willed the hobbit to correct him, to scold him for not paying Proper Attention, to accuse him of a defect of hearing, even to threaten to call for Oin.

As long as it was not - 

“You are making these cakes for... _elves_.”

“ _We_ are making these cakes”, his consort informed him blithely, adding more crushed almonds to the mixture in the bowl. “And not for _elves_. Just one elf. Legolas. The one who saved your nephew´s life during the recent attack.”

Ah.

And that was -

Rather - 

Unanswerable.

Which naturally induced the king to deepen his scowl.

It was not that he was not grateful to the pointy-eared prince; and he hoped he had expressed himself adequately on the occasion. The thought of losing Kili; when his younger nephew had only barely survived the wounds he had sustained in the Battle...

Thorin winced at the memory. His nephews – his _boys_ may have forgiven him – his now-husband had forgiven him – but he still found it hard to forgive himself. The thought that he had almost lost them, due to his own sickness-induced folly - 

“None of that now.” Small, gentle hands had taken possession of his face, fingers stroking a bearded cheek lightly. “But you will have to accept that there is a bond between Legolas and Kili. And Legolas is _not_ his father, you know.”

Thorin stared at his husband, his burglar. Who was right, as usual. Although he did not care to admit it. And he _had_ seen the growing attraction – attachment – between his younger heir and the Elven King´s son; even if it may have needed some prompting by his very distracting consort; he _wished_ for his sister-son to find happiness and if that happiness should mean he would have to accept the son of his enemy-turned-relcutant-ally as kin he would learn to appreciate Legolas; for Kili´s sake and that of his own, but that did _not_ mean he must find himself making _cakes_ in the great kitchen of his reclaimed mountain so that his strangely enamoured nephew might present them to that golden-haired elfling on a _picnic_ at the fringes of the former Greenwood! He hoped he was permitted more dignity than that.

And he was quite pleased that he had resisted any attacks on his dignity on his hobbit-husband´s part that had involved the fastening of a frilly piece of fabric around his hips in order to protect his kingly person from any kitchen labour related onslaught, pastry remnants or otherwise. 

His hobbit looked edible enough in his own choice for the both of them. 

He had absolutely no passion for daffodils. 

Or daisies.

He did, however, have very much passion for - 

The dwarf leaned in to - 

“Not before those cakes are finished, my king. And there is flour in your hair.”

Thorin scowled after his husband, who had tweaked his nose – and very likely left a smudge of _something_ behind; cheeky, cruel hobbit that he was! - and had returned to the tending to his dough.

~ ~ ~ ~

“There.” Bilbo smiled in satisfaction, looking over the array of tiny almond wonders on the table, fresh out of the oven and just waiting for -

“ _No._ ”

He returned a very unimpressed glare when confronted with the accusing look on his husband´s face. Well, no-one had told the dwarf to try and _snatch_ a cake! And it had not been a very _hard_ slap. And his hand had seen worse.

Like the white substance that was suddenly in it and - 

No.

Oh no, no, no!

He would not _dare_ to - 

_“Thorin!”_

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was not – displeased.

He would have preferred to find himself in another location, possibly, but he was not at all – displeased.

Thorin was lying on the cold stone floor, in the great kitchen of Erebor, a hobbit in his lap.

On his lap.

On his person.

Sitting on him.

Sitting on him with golden curls quite dishevelled and streaked with white, small chest heaving, cheeks wonderfully flushed from his efforts at besting his husband, more of the white powder dotted all over his person.

And ridiculously pleased.

With his perceived defeat over The Enemy. 

And the king was only to happy to concede defeat in this particular case, for it presented him with a view of his lovely consort that stirred certain parts of his heart...

And body.

He knew that his husband, his burglar, his _heart_ would make his exhaustion pass. 

And he wanted him.

Needed him.

To run his fingers through his hair – not merely for the purpose of spreading more of the baking ingredient in his mane! – to massage his scalp, to whisper sweet, soothing nothings into his ear while petting him - 

Large hands firmly gripped wide, inviting hips; a noble brow rising as if in challenge.

~ ~ ~ ~

“ _Thorin_!”, Bilbo gasped, heroically attempting to ignore the scratching of beard stubble on his neck. “Not nggggghhhh– Door! _Guards_!”

“Dismissed”, his wayward husband provided stoically, in between trails and nibs down a delectable throat. 

When both suddenly stopped. 

The hobbit, his breathing somewhat erratic, was slightly confused at the abruptness. 

“Love?”, he prompted, observing the dark frown that had appeared on his beloved´s face.

Blue eyes narrowed.

“Flour.”

~ ~ ~ ~

If any of the guards king and consort encountered on their rather hurried way back to the floor that housed the royal apartments – and the generous bathing opportunities within – thought the state of either spouse in any way peculiar, they knew better than to give any sign of the same. 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do, unfortunately, not own any of these lovely characters and envy Mr Tolkien and Mr Jackson the genius of their creation.


End file.
